


chivalry

by boleynqueens



Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Modern Era, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:17:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'What is the basis for this argument?' 'Poor word choice.' 'Brush up on jousting etiquette, you made several errors here. I'll list the first ten off the top of my head.' 'Shame you're so hard on Erasmus, he only has lovely things to say about you.' 'Run-on. Twenty too many commas. This source has been derided by ten reputable historians, don't use it again. The portrayal of Morgan le Fay in Arthurian legend does NOT equal misogyny, please--"</p>
<p>"Can I have your number?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	chivalry

**Author's Note:**

> mature content warning...as a guideline, anyone that read the angel verse (so what would an angel say, the devil wants to know) chapter 1 and was uncomfortable with it will probably be uncomfortable with this level of smut.
> 
> anyways! the oneshot nobody asked for, but the one i've always wanted to write, featuring TA(Teacher's Assistant)/college student Henry and college student Anne.

**Wednesday**

"Hey."

"Sorry," Anne says, not looking up, tucking her hair behind her ears, "my brother texted me about some emergency that wasn't an emergency and then everything in the world fell out of my bag," she continues, gesturing to the mess on the floor, "I'll be out of here soon, I already turned the test in--"

A hand (a gorgeous, smooth hand, actually, blue ink staining the side of it, fingernails clipped clean and short, skin almost luminescent in its paleness) grabs the green apple she was just reaching for, but, as Anne glances up to see the identity of its owner, rather than being passed to her ( _as civilized humans would do in this scenario_ , she thinks peevishly), it's brought to the full, reddish, plush mouth of her Medieval European History TA.

And bitten into.

Smirk included.

He stands up, towering over her. He's…tall, to say the least, at least six feet tall, probably. And she's still kneeling on the floor.

"What," she snaps, pushing the last loose pen on the floor into her leather satchel, "is your _problem_?"

Anne Boleyn has had a bone to pick with Henry Tudor ever since her first essay was handed back to her covered in red ink in his _stupid_ , girly, loopy handwriting ( _he dots his i's with hearts, for God's sake, like…what is **that** about?_ ). The 'constructive' criticism he left was almost the length of her essay itself!

And every essay thereafter was the same. Her only saving grace had been the tests, since Tudor had apparently made it his mission in life to rip her writing to shreds every chance he got.

What was the point on all the commentary, anyway? The worst grade she had received on any of the essays was a B+, so surely they didn't really warrant all of the criticism.

But when she had complained to her friends in the class after the fourth essay was handed back to her, at the most popular college bar they frequented, asked why the TA was so mean and _detailed_ in his meanness, she was met with blank stares.

"What do you mean, 'detailed'?" Jenna Parker had asked.

"I'm lucky if I get two sentences from the guy," Tom Wyatt had chimed in.

The rest of her friends had murmured their agreement, so Anne shrugged and went back to her martini, even more confused than before.

What had _she_ ever done to _him_ , she wondered, was she _such_ a bad writer compared to the rest of her classmates? She didn't _think_ so. It hardly seemed fair, really.

"I didn't know you were so attached to your fruit," he drawls, looking down at her, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose (which is on the bigger side…which _should_  be unattractive, but it's almost sculpted in its beauty, and at balance with his large, blue eyes), "my apologies."

" _Not_ accepted," Anne says, standing up so fast she almost gets dizzy, and it must appear that way, since he places a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

"I wanted to ask you something," Tudor says, sliding it off, "or…for something."

"What? My self esteem back?"

"I…what?"

His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, two spots of red bloom on his cheeks, but she continues, because he doesn't just get to _write_ this stuff and then never get confronted for it; she just turned in the last test for this class (their professor is taking early leave…his wife is pregnant, so they accelerated the syllabus and they've finished the course a few weeks earlier than all the other classes) so he's not her TA anymore, so she's going to say _whatever the hell she wants_ :

"'What is the basis for this argument?' 'Poor word choice.' 'Brush up on jousting etiquette, you made several errors here. I'll list the first ten off the top of my head.' 'Shame you're so hard on Erasmus, he only has _lovely_ things to say about you.' 'Run-on. Twenty too many commas. This source has been derided by ten reputable historians, don't use it again. The portrayal of Morgan le Fay in Arthurian legend does NOT equal misogyny, please--"

"Can I have your number?"

" _Excuse_ me?"

"Can I. Have. Your. Number?" he repeats, enunciating each word, taking another bite out of the apple.

"You're…not supposed to ask me that," she says, flustered, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder, "you're the TA--"

" _Was_ the TA. Class is over for the semester."

"I _see_ ," Anne says, narrowing her eyes.

"Well?" he asks, fluttering his eyelashes (which she's sure works on most girls, they're… _long_ , and he has the tall, bright-- not dark, given that his hair is a burnished red-- handsome thing going on) and smiling.

Anne steps in closer to him, then places her palm against his chest. He startles, almost jumps a bit, backwards (his pulse is…flatteringly quick), but she doesn't falter, smooths it over the silky (so, expensive, probably), robin's egg blue ( _he probably knows it brings out his eyes or some shit… **dick**_ ) of his button down shirt, then slides the pen out of the pocket there.

"I don't have a pen," she says, with a shrug, tucking it behind her ear, "and now…neither do you!"

And so she leaves him, mouth agape, stolen apple still in hand, before leaving the classroom.

* * *

**Friday**

Anne is loading her dirty clothes into the last available washing machine (someone has left their clothes, still wet, in one of them… _rude beyond belief_ , and they left their hamper here, too) when she hears the door open behind her.

She picks Friday for laundry because most people are at campus parties, but she's been procrastinating on hers…she really, really fucking hates doing laundry. It's too pre- _Feminine Mystique_ for her taste, and if she ever marries she's foisting the responsibility on to her husband.

Laziness also plays a fair amount too, but… _honestly_ , if she had the money, she'd probably just buy new underwear and throw the old pairs away, as Britney Spears is rumored to do (according to her sister, Mary, anyway, and her source on that rumor is probably from tabloids, which make up the majority of her recreational reading material). Such is how much she hates doing laundry.

She doesn't say hello (she's tired), merely darts a glance over to see the back of the person, moving their clothes into the dryer and slamming the lid shut before sliding quarters into the back of the machine.

They have the insouciant gait of Marlon Brando in _Streetcar_ , and what seems to be the width of his shoulders in that particular film, and red hair…

Red hair.

_Oh, shit_.

There is exactly _one_ attractive, male backside that accompanies red hair at Calais University, and it's not really someone she wants to see.

But see him she does, and he smiles at her before grabbing his hamper from the tiled floor, hoisting it up on the washing machine he just emptied, and filling it with tee shirts.

"You're supposed to put detergent in first," she remarks.

"Mind your own laundry, yeah?"

"Fine," Anne says, rummaging around in her own hamper for lighter colors for her load.

She notices a spot of yellow on the cap of his white t-shirt.

"You have a stain," she informs him, coolly, "on your shirt."

_That_ actually seems to get to him. He drops the clothes in his hands and pats at his shirt, frantically, asks, "Where?"

Anne sighs, her own dirty laundry still in hand, and walks over to him, flicks her index against the yellow spot.

The shirt has a print of Da Vinci's _Creation of Adam_ \-- or, just the part with the hands, anyway-- which she recognizes from art classes, on the front (she's torn between thinking it's pretentious, like his dumb Clark Kent frames, or cool).

He moves his neck to the right, sees it, mutters, "Stupid deli sandwiches," before peeling it off, revealing an undershirt underneath, and throwing it in with the rest of his clothes.

"You're indecent," she comments, but what she's thinking is _your forearms are indecent, of another world entirely_.

"You're one to talk," he replies, looking down at her hand with a smirk, "'eat me', huh?"

Anne looks down at her hand, and realizes, too late, that her white underwear with the cheeky phrase 'eat me' threaded in red are on top of the smattering of underwear in between her hands.

"Shut up," she snaps, blushing, she stalks back over to her own open washing machine and throws the offending piece, along with its cousin underwear, inside, his laughter echoing around the room.

It feels…too warm in here, suddenly, so she slams the lid shut, sets the washer to cold, puts in her quarters, and then walks to the fogged window in the corner of the room and pushes it open for some fresh air.

Tudor's still laughing, and she's still furious.

"Shut up!" she says, again.

"Make me."

" _Make_ you? What are you, six?"

"Yes," he says, closing the lid shut, "I'm a 6'2 six-year-old, Boleyn, _what_ gave it away?"

"Why are you so annoy--"

"To quote your underwear…'eat me.'"

"Shut the fuck--"

"I would, maybe. If you asked."

"Shut the _fuck up_!"

"Make me."

Now both of the washing loads they were working on are running, and now they have somehow, by some gravitational pull, made their way to meeting at the middle of the row of them, and he's smirking again and she'd like to wipe the smirk right off his face, she considers slapping it off, maybe.

His top row of gleaming white teeth pierce his pillowy lower lip and she is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to bite it as well.

And so, she does, on impulse. Straightens her posture, extends herself (grateful to the platform Mary Jane's she's wearing, given that she doesn't have to literally tip-toe through their height difference) and nips his lip, once, before setting herself back down on her heels.

"Ow!" he yelps, rubbing his bottom lip with two fingers, "what the _hell_ , Boleyn--"

"Your _mouth_ is almost as girlish as your handwriting."

"Why were you _looking_ at it in the first place, huh?" he taunts, blowing her a kiss without the hand gesture, and she's not about to stand for what he's implying.

"How could I _not_?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, "it's _huge_."

"You're fucking rude," he says, expression thunderous, jaw clenched.

" _You're_ fucking rude."

"You…fuck! What _ever_! I'm _glad_ you didn't give me your number, actually, because you seem like a _pain in the ass_."

" _I'm_ a pain in the ass?" Anne gasps, indignantly, placing a hand over her heart.

"Yes!"

" _ME_ is?"

"Grammar, Boleyn--"

"Stop _editing me_ , Tudor!"

" _Make_ me, Boley--"

Anne interrupts his mouth, mid-speech, with her own, pressing it and her body against his. The relative quiet of the room, now absent of their shouting, flows around her like honey, the only sound now is the dull roar of the washing machines and the clothes of the single dryer thudding against the metal walls.

Her right hip is pressed against the edge of one of the washing machines, and she can't tell if she's trembling more than it is.

His mouth, against hers, is just as plush as it appears, she finds. Cool and soft and yielding against her own as she feels his hand carded in her long hair. His fingers trail through her hair and then the same hand smooths a path down her neck, ending at her shoulder with a gentle squeeze.

"I don't like you," she says as soon as he breaks the kiss, and he laughs, throatily, before kissing her behind her ear.

"Whatever you say," he murmurs, thumb pressed tightly against the edge of her collarbone, fingers moving up and down her shoulder.

" _You_ don't like _me_ , either!" Anne scoffs.

"What gave you that impression?" Tudor asks, nuzzling her neck.

"What you wrote on my--"

"If it seemed harsh," he says, moving to kiss her cheek, then placing a thumb under her chin and tilting it upwards, to better meet his gaze, "it's only because I thought you had potential. Also, I take it a bit personally when chivalry's insulted. It's kind of my thing."

Ah, she _had_  written something about chivalry being outdated and pointless in one of her papers…still, she had thought she'd backed her argument up well!

But it seems less relevant now, as he's the one that starts kissing her this time, taking tiny sips from her mouth between his teeth, cradling her face in his hands.

"What's chivalrous about _this_?" she asks coyly, as he kisses her forehead.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asks, brow furrowed, he pulls away from her, expression genuinely concerned, bright blue eyes intent on hers through his glasses.

"No!"

"I've wanted to kiss you for a while, but I won't if you don't want me to--"

"It was a _joke_ , oh my _God_ , keep kissing--"

If nothing else, he takes direction well, because he kisses her again before she finishes her sentence, more deeply, this time.

He traces his tongue against her mouth and she parts it; they French kiss, slowly, and she feels his hand, warm, pressed against the thin material of her shirt on her back. She feels his fingers dip in between the shirt and the inside of the waist of her skirt and he pulls it out.

"I want…to feel what you feel like," he whispers, fingers ghosting over the small of her back, and she feels chills, wouldn't be surprised if there were goose bumps there, now, though her skin feels too tingly to tell, really, "is that okay?"

"Yes," she whispers, and he answers with his hand, warm and dry, pressed against the bare small of her back.

Anne is half expecting his hand to slide up to the back of her bra, but it doesn't, doesn't dip under the waistband, either, just continues to trace circles over her skin (in a way that makes her imagine him making circles… _elsewhere_ ) as he sighs.

She pulls away and he blinks, slowly, as if dazed, and she really likes that he looks that way because of her, so Anne places both of her hands on the edge of the washing machine, hoists herself up, and takes a seat there.

"Anne, what--"

"Not Boleyn, then?" she teases, as her fingers tease the bottom hem of her shirt, and he shakes his head.

Anne stares at him, bites her lip, and he traces the skin near her mouth with the back of his hand and says, "You have beauty marks."

"On my jaw, yes."

"It's fitting."

"It is?"

"Well," he says, withdrawing his hand and shrugging a single shoulder, smiling, shyly, and ducking his head, "you're beautiful, so…yes."

"I have them other places, too."

"Oh? Where?" he asks, worrying a hand over his neck.

"Guess," she says, leveling him with a stare as she pulls the end of her shirt upwards, slowly. Watches his breath hitch, his mouth drop open at her bare stomach, before she pulls it up over her head, tossing it on the floor.

Anne cups both hands over her bra, then uses her index on both to point to her clavicle.

"Here," she says.

"I…"

"Do you see them?"

"I'm…seeing them," he croaks, clearing his throat.

"Do you not want to feel what I feel like anymore?" she asks, because…he's just staring. He's not touching her anymore, and she feels somewhat…unanchored by that reality.

"I have a key," he says, suddenly, eyes moving from her chest to her face, "I'm the RA for the…do you want me to…" he nods, towards the door, "lock--"

"Yes."

"Only if you want to," he says, and he called her Anne, so it's the least she can do to call him Henry, so she starts to think of him as Henry.

" _Yes_!"

"Okay," he says, quickly, and he turns to the shut door, there's a small window in it, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket (embroidered with roses, and she resolves to make fun of him for it, later) and stuffs it in between the small, metal sill, so that it acts as a miniature curtain. Henry fishes a key ring from his pocket, spins it until he finds the correct one, and locks the handle, pulls it to test it, and then turns around to face her.

"What about that one?" Henry asks, nodding to the window she opened in the corner.

"Oh, yeah, close the blinds, I--"

"I'll get it," he says, practically running towards the window and yanking the ropes shut.

She's impatient so she hops off, leans her back against the washing machine as she waits for him to turn around.

He does, he strides over and meets her there, then places his hand above her knee, stroking it.

"What's with the 90s' school girl get up?" he asks, casually, his hand moving slowly, up and down her thigh, "not that I'm complaining, but..."

Anne's wearing white thigh highs with a short, deep grey, high-waisted Ralph Lauren skirt, plus the crushed, black velvet platform Mary Janes. It _was_ with a tissue soft, white capped t-shirt but now the skirt is paired with a cupless, wireless bra, black, two strips of fabric make a criss-cross above the part that covers her breasts, just under the beauty marks that adorn her olive-toned skin.

"Laundry day," she says, and he nods, a 'fair enough' sort of gesture, before sliding his hand up to the edge of her underwear under her skirt.

Anne's back is still resting against the metal of the washing machine, and she feels weak in the knees, hopes she can stay standing.

"Tell me when you want me to stop," Henry whispers, and she nods.

He slips his middle finger over the cotton of her underwear and presses the pad of it against her before stroking to where the front of her slit is, staring at her all the while.

She blushes, heart beating an erratic rhythm, as she reviews all the things she knows about him in her head.

_Henry Tudor is on the honor roll_ , she thinks, as he strokes, again, flicking against her clit this time before her continues the back-and-forth motion, _they call him the 'orphan prince' because he inherited the Tudor family fortune_.

_'Orphan prince' has got game_ , she thinks, vaguely, trembling as she watches him slide his middle and index finger into his mouth (truly an unnecessary gesture, given that the foreplay has made her wet already), only to slide them under the fabric of her underwear and over her sex.

_He's the editor of the school paper_ , Anne thinks, as he teases his fingers against her center, grinning as he does.

"Can I have your number?" Henry asks, entirely interrupting her train of thought.

Henry Tudor is asking for her phone number and has taken his fingers out of her underwear and now they are pressed over the fabric again, gently, rubbing up and down. He is biting his lip and his eyes are wide, unblinking, soft and hopeful, 'innocent' would be how she'd describe it if he weren't in the middle of doing something…not very innocent at all.

"That's…I…"

"Oh, I'm _sorry_. Am I _distracting_ you?" he teases, slipping his index inside the fabric, then out again.

"How will you remember--"

"I'll put it in my phone."

"I…"

Henry shrugs, withdraws his hand from under her skirt, then walks over to the dryer and opens it, pulls a towel out, starts the dryer again, and then spreads the towel over one of the rumbling washing machines.

"If you want to tell me," he says, sweetly, nodding towards the towel, "I think you should sit there, first."

Anne nods, and Henry takes her hand, walks her over, and she sits atop the towel, primly, grips the edge of the white metal with her hands.

Henry kneels onto the floor and hooks his fingers behind the front of her underwear, knuckles playing against her center.

He takes his phone from his pocket with the other hand, and asks, "First digit?"

She begins to recite and he hums as he enters it into his phone, still fingering her with the other hand.

"What is it?" Henry asks, rubbing his first three fingers against her clit again, over the fabric.

"I _just_ told you!"

"I want to make sure it's right--"

"GOD! 152-615-33--"

"Oh, _slower_ , _please_ ," Henry says, rubbing his knuckles in a circle over her center more slowly himself, " _Anne_ , I want to make _sure_ it's right--"

"1. 5. 2. 6. 1. 5. 3. 3. 1. 2," she bites out, then gasps in indignation when he moves his hand.

" _Thank_ you," he says, sweetly, pocketing his phone.

"Are you _stopping_?"

"Do you want me to--"

"NO!"

"Alright then," he says, laughing, aptly tugging the buckles of her platforms up and off, each falls with a thunk to the floor.

"I'd like to put my mouth where my hand was," Henry elucidates, succinctly, matter-of-factly, actually, sliding his glasses off his nose and closing them, putting them on the table reserved for hampers, "may I do that?"

_May I **do** that? _

"You may," she says, lightly, and he nods, smiling, before situating his head under her skirt and kissing her over the fabric of her underwear.

Anne feels his nose press over her mound and his tongue laps against the cotton and _oh_ _my God??_ Somehow that's even sexier, she doesn't know why, just the…presence. Of him. All of him. All put together.

"Henry," she whimpers, and he buries his mouth against her deeper, kisses in between her legs with an eagerness she can _feel_. He feels so _warm_ and _solid_ , his head between her thighs, his hair soft against the bareness of her skin, and she finally realizes they're in a public place, the blinds are closed behind her, sure, and the door is locked, sure, but it _still_ feels as if someone could come in at any moment and that _heightens_ the urgency, somehow, in the best possible way.

"It's not Sunday, Anne," he scolds, emerging from out under her skirt and pushing it over her legs, "it's Friday."

" _Excuse_ me?" she gasps, utterly livid at the fact that he's stopped.

"Your underwear. Say 'Sunday'. I'm not going down on you while you're wearing holy day underwear--"

"It's _laundry day_! It's a miracle I'm wearing any at all--"

"Be that as it may, I have to take them off," he interrupts, "I can't keep looking at the word 'Sunday' as I'm kissing you there, Jesus would not approve--"

"Then _take them off_."

_Jesus would not approve_. Because Jesus _would_ approve of premarital sex in a public college laundromat, yes, she's _soooo_ sure….

"If you insist," he says in a honeyed tone, sliding a hand up the side of each leg and easing them down, over her feet.

"Shall I throw these in with the others?" Henry asks.

"I think I'm sitting on the…undergarment…load."

"And you don't want to get up?"

"NO."

"Suit yourself," he says, sliding the pair into the pocket of his jeans, "now, where were we…"

Henry kisses her on the knee, and then kisses every inch or so upwards, until he reaches the top of her thigh and murmurs, against it, "you have more here."

"More what?" Anne asks, growing shaky with impatience; her hands gripping the edge of the machine feel like the only things stopping her from falling off the edge of the very earth itself.

"Beauty marks, on the inside of your thigh--"

"Fascinating, maybe you can tell me more about my skin-- _ah_!"

Judging by his reaction he's either tired of or was enamored with her cheekiness. Perhaps a combination of both, but whatever it was, she doesn't care. The reaction was _good_.

And the combination of him sliding his tongue over her clit as the technology below vibrates as it washes her clothes? Is _stellar_.

His variance between closed and open mouthed kisses strikes the perfect balance. There's no numbness, no pressure that's harder than she'd like, and she rests a hand against his hair, stroking it, whispers, "It's so good, please don't stop," and he hums against her and she giggles, then a sharp inhale, and exhale as he withdraws and nips at the inside of her left thigh.

"What do you think," he asks, rubbing an eskimo kiss against the spot on her inner thigh he bit, "of chivalry now?"

"I think I like this particular knight," she answers, "please, Henry I…please."

"Please…?"

"I'm so close, please…"

Henry emerges from her skirt, places the fabric of it over her knees, which close together, reflexively.

"Please, what?" he asks, face flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat, blue eyes fervent and shining.

"I…"

Anne feels a drop of her own sweat trickle down from the hollow of her throat, down her chest.

"Help me?" she whimpers, plaintively.

"You look warm," Henry says, resting two arms over her knees.

"I am…oh!" she exclaims, and he presses his lips together as she tugs at the bottom of her bra.

"Can you take this off for me? There's two buttons in the front," Anne murmurs, lowly, and Henry is up to his feet like a shot, works deft fingers over the two buttons and their loops, inhales, sharply, as he pulls the straps down her shoulders.

He holds her left, and then her right breast in either hand before sinking to his knees again.

"This," he says, "is _quite_ an image."

And that is how, at ten to midnight (on what Anne _thought_ would just be another Friday night) it comes to pass that Henry Tudor eats her out whilst she's sitting on top of a running washing machine, topless, underwear-less, shoe-less, and more or less inhibitionless.

Anne throws her head back as she comes, with quick, exhilarated breaths, ( _Henry-Henry-Henry_ , she whispers, over and over again, like a prayer), feels her long hair tickle the dimples of her lower back as she does, his hands gripping the outside of her legs as she shakes, waves of ecstasy undulating through her until she is spent.

Once she's done, he politely finds her shirt and bra from the floor and hands them to her, and turns away, as if he's shy.

Hard to imagine, she thinks, but puts both back on just the same.

"We might be able to do more in a bed next time," she quips, tapping him on the shoulder and handing him his glasses.

"Oh!" he says, wiping the glass with the bottom of his undershirt, "thank you…I was thinking next time could be a date, though."

"Oh?"

"Yes," he says, grabbing his hamper from atop the dryer, now dinging, he opens it and starts to put his clothes back in, "I think we should do that."

"You have my underwear," Anne says, suddenly remembering, tugging her skirt down over her legs.

"Do I?" Henry asks, hamper in arms.

"Yes…"

"Well," he says, with a wink, before unlocking the door and swinging it open, he calls out, "I'll just have to give those back to you next time, won't I?"

**Author's Note:**

> "your forearms are indecent"
> 
> anyways my fancast for henry in this story in jack hawkins and i mean...tHIS is why i wrote that: http://www.imdb.com/media/rm3293170688/nm4813169?ref_=nm_phs_md_3
> 
> the 'eat me' underwear were inspired by a nsfw photo on tumblr: http://bydailyproof.tumblr.com/post/144826515888
> 
> they say "wish you were here" rather than "eat me", but y'know...same sentiment


End file.
